


Unravel

by Cocohorse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affairs, Comfort, Confessions, Drabble, Feelings, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: It is with grudging reluctance that Snape comes to accept this secret affair they have — as long as it doesn't become something more.
Relationships: Gilderoy Lockhart/Severus Snape
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Unravel

Snape is unimpressed when Lockhart becomes the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. What an idiot, he thinks. He remembers Lockhart as a student a few years below him at Hogwarts. To think that gawky, C-average Ravenclaw became a world-renowned hero. Snape doesn't believe a word of his stories.

Snape tries to put up with Lockhart's egotism. It's incredibly frustrating. So he's happy when he sends the man landing on his rear end during the dueling club. He's happy when sees the man wilt under his underhanded insults and curt comments.

But Lockhart doesn't stop. In fact, it seems almost as though Snape's rolled eyes and reprimands have the opposite of their intended effects. It's during an angrier-than-usual Snape tirade against the blonde's usual idiocy that Snape notices Lockhart is suddenly red-faced and, for once in his life, very, very quiet. Snape notes how close they are standing and how alone they are in his classroom. He notes how hard he's suddenly breathing.

He leaves before anything can happen.

In the weeks after that, he notices a new angle to Lockhart's annoyingness. The man keeps finding new reasons to cause mistakes and problems, and Snape _swears_ that they're all excuses for the two of them to be together. Intimidation doesn't deter Lockhart — instead, he bats his eyelashes and trembles his lips like a not-so-sorry puppy.

Snape would usually find such groveling despicable, but he is much more disgusted by the filthy, hungry thoughts that begin to blossom in his own head. The notion of him unravelling the wizarding world's beloved golden boy behind closed doors every night is immensely distracting, and proves so when one day Snape sets a potion of his ablaze (accidentally, this time) and everyone has to evacuate.

He's had enough during one of Lockhart's long-winded tales. He yanks the blabbering blonde away from everyone, drags him into a forgotten storage closet, and then shuts him up with some well-placed hands and kisses. He hates how easily his mouth finds the right places, how eagerly Lockhart responds.

Alas, Snape's one-time impulsive decision is followed with many more of its kind. Petty arguments about the logistics of potion-brewing and _how you cannot add things just because they're pretty_ are followed by hushed, heated exchanges on top of Snape's desk.

The two professors find it hard to keep up with grading papers.

It is with grudging reluctance that Snape comes to accept this secret affair they have. As long as such physical activities don't _majorly_ interfere with his work, then he doesn't see much of a problem. So he's satisfied with how things are — slinking around after dark, leaving each other's bedrooms with only the paintings as witness — and nothing more.

Lockhart's daytime antics are still irritating, obviously. But there are changes. The man's attention has shockingly shifted a _bit_ away from himself and more towards Snape. Sometimes instead of preening over his accomplishments for the umpteenth time, Lockhart begins to leave _compliments_ — sort of — for Snape.

 _You're so brilliant,_ Lockhart says as he watches Snape turn peacock feathers into gold coins. _Almost as brilliant as me,_ he naturally adds, but there's undisguised awe in his voice.

Snape isn't used to flirting. He isn't used to someone wanting to talk to him all the time (even if it was all about their own haircare routine) or someone who marveled at the things he did (even if those things were as menial as organizing papers). He isn't used to someone _wanting_ him — even if that someone is Gilderoy Lockhart, of all people.

It starts like any other night, this time. Snape dresses and stands up to leave Lockhart's bedroom as he always does, but something keeps him standing there, frozen and staring at Lockhart.

He stares at the messy golden locks that dangle over Lockhart's face, the fine hair that runs down his bare and sweating chest. He looks into those watchful, expectant blue eyes that are more observant than their owner lets on.

"What's wrong?" Lockhart finally asks.

"Nothing," he snaps, but there's no anger in his voice. He's quieter when he continues. "Why are you still doing this?"

Lockhart blinks, tilts his head to the side. "Because I like you."

"You like me," Snape says dumbly. It's a statement and a question.

"I like you very, very much, Severus Snape."

Snape huffs. Stares at his feet for a minute, thinking, thinking.

Lockhart stirs in surprise and pulls aside his blanket when Snape returns to the bed. He gazes at the Potions professor, settling into the pillow beside him, with a wondering look. This is new.

"Why do you?" he asks Snape.

Snape's eyes are closed. "I don't know," he says. There's conflict and confusion and a little bit of loneliness in his voice.

Gentle kisses trail down his face and into his neck, and Snape sighs.

The days following their night together, Snape feels lighter. He yells at his students less. He sits through meetings without complaints. He flashes the smallest of smiles at Lockhart when they pass each in the hallways. They're just small and brief enough that no one else notices them except the other man, who, each time, instantly beams and blushes and nearly stumbles over his robes.

Their nightly routines, on the other hand, have changed. They now stay in bed afterwards. They lay there in each other's arms, sometimes in calm quietness, when the only sounds are their slowing breaths and the rustles of warm blankets, soft pillows, and tussled hair. Other times, they talk about their students and coworkers, and Snape finds himself quite enjoying the gossip. He allows himself to roll his eyes when Lockhart complains of a new Dumbledore rule, or to snort when Lockhart recalls the time he un-boned Potter's arm. Lockhart doesn't mind Snape's minimal reactions, which is a relief for Snape, who'd much rather listen than spend unpaid hours talking and trying to entertain.

Unfortunately, though, Lockhart's tall tales still continue. Snape tolerates them in the beginning, but he feels himself quickly losing patience after Lockhart recalls yet another beast slain. Sure, Snape has no proof of what Lockhart was saying wasn't actually true, but it just doesn't make sense.

"What happened to the scrawny Ravenclaw who always fell off his broom during flying class?" mutters Snape in the middle of a rambling. He is sitting in a much too big and puffy bed, his back propped up by one large pillow he plucked from the several others typically there. His long fingers idly comb through the blonde hair resting in his lap.

The hair ruffles underneath his hand as Lockhart turns his head to look up at Snape. The man's face is red and embarrassed and indignant. He opens his mouth as if to leap into a defensive denial, but genuine surprise wins out and colors his voice.

"You remember that?"

They have never really talked about their student days at Hogwarts. That stretch of life isn't among the list of Lockhart's greatest achievements, nor is it something that Snape deems worth wasting breath or memory on. But he still can't help but draw comparisons between present celebrity extraordinaire Gilderoy Lockhart, and that strange Ravenclaw boy a few years below him, whose utter averageness never drew eyes unless he was doing something stupid for attention.

Snape sniffs. Adds, "How could I forget your nose bleeding all over your robes?"

"It was a tampered broom, alright," shoots back Lockhart, his face pulled into a frown as if he tasted something sour. "Someone from one of the other Houses — I suspect your dearly beloved Slytherins — obviously didn't want me to make the Quidditch team. Afraid of me snatching up all the House points, they were. I almost feel flattered."

Snape lets out an unimpressed snort. "Of course," he says dryly.

Lockhart goes quiet under the slow, repetitive motions of Snape's steady fingers brushing through his hair. He stares out across the room, and Snape almost feels the gears in the man’s head spin.

"School was a nightmare," says Lockhart.

A small noise of agreement from Snape.

"I _hated_ it.”

Snape's fingers stop.

"I hated who I was," says Lockhart, quieter. "But it was maybe the best years of my life."

Snape frowns, but he is subtly taken aback by this sudden confession. "What do you mean by that?"

"I wasn't always like this." Lockhart gives a flourish of his hand over himself. His voice is stage-like as ever. “Who was Gilderoy Lockhart before he became a household name? Yes, let me tell you. He was quite a handsome and smart lad, but he was afflicted with the burden of having a Muggle father and being surrounded by perfect purebloods who wanted nothing to do with him."

Lockhart sniffs and then continues, slower, softer. "I spent all those years screwing around. No point in trying hard in classes when there were better people around and no one took you seriously. So I did a lot of silly and daring things trying to get people's attentions." He then flashes a half-hearted grin. "And it all worked out. Eventually!"

"Eventually.” Snape is surprised by Lockhart's admission of his past. Lockhart being so average, even mediocre — it's certainly not something he would've included in his autobiographies. Snape thinks, then asks, "Then, how was it the best years of your life?"

"Did I say that?" Lockhart gives a very short laugh. There is a sort of wistfulness in it — light, distant, and bitter. "I don't know. It feels like a lifetime ago."

Snape doesn’t push. Nostalgia for a more innocent, optimistic, and selfless version of yourself, likely. He can relate.

"I can't believe I'm back," Lockhart groans. "One would think that there would be some exciting things to add to my next book by now."

"Maybe if you did a better job at teaching.”

"You're one to say! At least the students adore me. They always leave your classroom as if they've just been punished. Merlin knows I have." Lockhart winks.

Snape sighs deeply. It's maybe the fifth time today.

"Were you always such a sourpuss, Severus, even as a teenager?"

"If that means being studious, then yes."

"A bookworm. How cute. I wish I met you then. With your books, and my looks and charm and natural athleticism, we would've made an unstoppable duo."

"Please. You and me?" Snape snorts, black brows knitting together in incredulity. "You were always getting into trouble. Trying to get out of work. Taking credit for other people's work. Nothing has changed."

Lockhart sputters, shaking loose Snape’s hands on his head. The glint of a panicked, cornered dog shines in his eyes. "Taking credit? What on earth makes you think that? Of course not. Who... Who told you that?"

"Don't think I'm as gullible as your _fans_ ," growls Snape, staring down at the floundering man with a steely gaze. A hint of satisfaction — at last this is happening! — edges its way into his voice. "Even a blind Muggle with half a working brain could tell that your stories are rubbish."

Lockhart sharply recoils from Snape's lap. "Dear Severus!" he cries out, as if Snape has spoken something as blasphemous as a critique of Lockhart’s curls. "I can't believe you'd so flagrantly accuse your lover of such a wicked crime. Rubbish, indeed!"

"Damn you." Snape wants to add _we're not lovers_ but his tongue decides to quickly move on. " _Forgive me_ if I find it hard to believe that you tamed an entire clan of dragons when you once nearly fainted at the sight of Minerva's Animagus transformation."

"It's the contortions." Lockhart shudders before defensively saying, "And so what? What if it wasn't all entirely true? Would you blame me for taking some artistic liberty to the quill? That's how books _sell_ , if you didn't know. My last book sold over 5,000 copies in its first week, which I dare say is a smashing feat of accomplishment."

"Thank you for confirming how far the state of literature has slipped," mutters Snape.

Wearing an exaggerated frown, Lockhart is clearly offended and sensitive. He sits up, trembling, and Snape can only wonder what lame excuses are going through his mind.

The moment passes, and Lockhart sighs, short and sharp.

"It doesn't matter, anyways. It's my own reality now." He rolls onto his side and turns away.

The silence stretches between them. It is less awkward than it is tired and exhausted from speaking so vulnerably. A pair of flickering candles on the bedside table, the pitter-patter of an emerging rainstorm, and faint echoes from the outside hallways and sleeping quarters are the only disturbances in the night.

It isn’t like Snape is surprised. He would be more surprised if even half of Lockhart’s claims were true. Not to mention, Snape also knows a thing or two about secret identities.

He picks at the loose collar of Lockhart’s open night shirt, pretending to smooth over the wrinkles. But his efforts don’t make any difference besides producing a few more wrinkles in the white fabric.

For a few seconds he wonders if he’s supposed to say something like normal, comforting partners do. But before he can question himself, Lockhart speaks again. 

“If I’m not who people think I am, who _you_ think I am, would you still like me?”

The rain outside comes down hard and in heavy sheets. Seconds later, lightning flashes. Electric blue momentarily outlines Lockhart’s features: the angled jaw, the bouncy tips of hair, the soft, creamy expanse of chest that sank and rose with his delicate inquiry.

The loud thunder that follows is the blood pumping in Snape’s ears. A pang of _want_ seizes him, makes his skin burn with a familiar hunger, and he is overcome with both chaste affection and concupiscent desire.

Lockhart is beautiful, minimally dressed and spread against the sheets. Vulnerable, open, needy for attention and comfort. So is Snape.

“None of that matters,” he says. It’s true. While he has always harbored suspicions of Lockhart’s credentials, now confirmed to be partially or completely fraudulent, nothing about this revelation makes a real difference in Snape’s opinion of him.

“I’m not sleeping with you because you rescued a village from an invasion of giants. Or not, who knows. If I wanted to sleep with a hero, there are more appropriate avenues than going to my coworker.”

Lockhart’s face is red with embarrassment. It’s cute. Snape has the urge to run a hand along his chest and up to his neck. “Then why —“

Snape leans over, kisses the top of his head and murmurs, “Because.” Kisses his flushed cheek. “Because you’re so stupidly lovely.” Kisses his lips. Tilts his head back and slowly drinks from his eager, ready, pliant mouth. “Gorgeous.”

It isn’t really the romantic answer of a lover that maybe Lockhart wants. But right now, a more physical than verbal comfort is acceptable, and maybe even preferable.

A practiced hand quickly tugs away Lockhart’s night shirt. A half-lidded Lockhart presses into Snape’s body with mumbles and moans, and Snape pulls him close, takes him in, devours him whole.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something I wrote in my Notes app a few months ago, because I personally love the idea of a secret Snockhart affair in which feelings develop (and, let's be real, I just wanted to write them kissing). Decided to share it, even if it's not fully thought-out or complete. Comments appreciated, and feel free to check out my other Snockhart fics!


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